When Death takes Stella's mother, he realises he has made a mistake for the first time ever. Now he wants to make amends the only way he knows how.
The Man Who Fed On Tears always knows whose time it is to pluck from the world of the living. His existence is one of a symbiosis between his need for the tears and woe he causes to those closest to the deceased, and the natural order of life and death to which he is bound. He never questions himself or his actions and has never made a mistake. Until now.
Stella is a four-year-old girl who misses her mommy and wants to see her again. She doesn’t yet understand the concept of loss, so when she sees close family members crying, she tries to stay cheerful and optimistic. After all, Mommy said they’d see each other again when the time comes At Horizon’s End. So if they’ll meet again, why is everyone crying?
Excerpt
The Man Who Fed on Tears
The probability of having made a mistake prickled his mind. He had been standing outside the house for some time, though the meaning of time, as mortals used it, meant nothing to him. At least, not until he realised how long it took him to make up his mind to come up with a solution to his problem.
People inched towards the house’s front door, as though something bad might happen to them if they went too close. They all wore masks of sadness. So many things about mortals made no sense, like how easily their emotions shifted. One moment they were cheerful and smiling, defiant or oblivious of his presence; the next they would offer him their tears and pain in subjugation. No perpetual and consistent behaviour. So volatile and transitional beings. But not the little girl.
She sat on the lower step of the house’s porch, and held a pink stuffed rug. She was talking to it, though it never replied. Was she the solution to his problem? Could she right his wrong? What drew him to this particular, tiny mortal? There had been billions in the past, but none like her. Every mortal cried. They did it when their time came, or when someone close to them joined him. The tears fuelled him.
This girl, Stella, was different. Different enough to have peaked his interest. And curiosity was something he was happy to exist without, a thing meant for mortals. Like doubt.
Familiar energy drifted from the house, sounds, enticing and welcoming. In the past, these sounds reassured him of a job well done. Lament always followed his footsteps. It was his payment, his sustenance. Now the nourishment tasted like ash, the welcoming wailing hollow.
Doubt – the first time he ever experienced it – threatened to put him off balance. Had he truly performed the task the way he was meant to? How did mortals deal with doubt without going mad?
